


dragging your feet in the face of creation

by intimatopia



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Royalty, Gentleness, Light Angst, M/M, Magical Realism, Polyamory, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-13
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-12 23:35:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29392761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/intimatopia/pseuds/intimatopia
Summary: Phil did not often hear the word no—not even from Wilbur, who could pick a bone with anything under the sun.Techno caved to their desires slowly, like the roots of a plant inching towards water. He recognized that need, knew it as a heat in the back of his throat that kept him warm all winter long.
Relationships: Wilbur Soot/Technoblade/Phil Watson
Comments: 5
Kudos: 64





	dragging your feet in the face of creation

**Author's Note:**

> happy birthday, summer!
> 
> we've spoken nearly every day for nearly two years now, and it's been a joy and honor. our friendship has made my life so much better <3 you're a wonderful, wonderful person and i love you so much. i hope you have the best year ahead! 
> 
> and i hope you like this fic :3

He arrived in winter, the magic that kept this palace turning with the seasons wrapping around him like a cloak. Wandering the castle over the course of weeks or months, he came across a rickety steel staircase without railings tucked in the back of a storage room. He didn’t even remember what he’d been doing in that storage room, but he remembered the sight of that staircase: the drop of sunlight on the third step, bright and thick as amber, the moth wings littered near the base, the honeycombed metal silvery in the cool air. 

Up the unsteady stairs, he found a small marble landing. The architecture of it made little sense—the marble outcrop and the pillars that ringed it grew out the side of the castle like some strange mushroom, but there was no way of getting to it from its own level. One of the many anachronisms that littered Phil and Wilbur’s home, Techno guessed.

He could see across the entire wintery kingdom from the strange little gazebo. The snowed-up hills and houses, the river winding in the east like mercury, the pink and orange sky through the pillars.

“I didn’t expect to see you up here,” a voice behind him said.

Techno half-turned to see Phil’s straw-colored hair and green cap poking out of the stairwell. “I didn’t know this place was supposed to be a secret.”

“It’s not,” Phil said, coming out. “It’s rather hard to find, though.”

“On purpose?”

Phil hummed, placing himself at Techno’s side. They watched the sun slide slowly to the horizon, the birds drifting across the sky in lazy formations. Techno could’ve convinced himself he was falling forward through space. There was nothing to anchor him to this surface.

Nothing but Phil’s magic—ghosts and stone, Techno recalled, though he didn’t know how it worked. He thought about asking, but the words died in his throat as Phil’s hand found his, and Techno came back to himself with a blink.

It had been a long time since someone had touched him. Techno thought about the blood on his hands, the places he’d clawed his way out of, the things Phil knew and the things he didn’t. He squeezed tentatively, experimentally. Phil squeezed back. Techno’s heart felt like an overripe apple in his chest, tender and on the verge of falling.

***

That night he found Wilbur in the library. “I think I’ve overstayed my welcome,” he said to Wilbur’s soft-soled shoes, propped up against the edge of a shelf.

Wilbur turned a page. “Did Phil say something?”

“No,” Techno said. “He’s been very—kind.” _He held my hand though the two of you are practically married._ “Both of you have been—”

“Then it’s not a fucking issue, is it?” Wilbur interrupted. “If you want a formal invitation I can have one handlettered and engraved and sent to your room.” He adopted a mockingly formal register, speaking magic: “‘To our dear friend, Technoblade. We invite you to stay as long as you fucking like. It’s not like there’s anything in this castle except spiders, pigeons, and rats since my kids ran away. You will not be bothered in your work, except when we feel like it. Offer expires never. Your pain in the ass, Wilbur Soot and Phil Za.’” He paused contemplatively. “I can’t figure out the plural form of pain in the ass.”

Techno laughed as Wilbur’s words settled over him like pale gold dust. “Is Phil’s last name really—”

“No clue,” Wilbur said fervently. “Do you _want_ to leave?”

“This is like, one of the top three nicest places I’ve ever lived in,” Techno said. “And the other two are, uh. Nonexistent, now.”

Wilbur’s expression went blank at the reminder of Techno’s past. Techno could never tell what that face meant—disapproval? Exasperation? Carefully hidden distaste? Techno wished Phil were here to translate, then re-examined that reliance under new light. “Stay for as long as you like,” Wilbur said finally, sounding rather sad. “Phil doesn’t mind either.”

Back in his room, unable to sleep, he’d stared at his sword, propped up against an armchair near the fireplace where the engraving on the hilt caught the light. He thought about the years he’d spent by himself. He wondered if there was still time to learn something new.

***

The magic of it piled up like snowdrifts against the crystalline windows after that, like the things Wilbur and Phil made between them. Techno had noticed all of it, trying not to be touched or moved, but something had shifted inside him up on that gazebo and he felt like he was thawing—like deep in the winter palace of a winter kingdom he’d found the warmth he’d been running towards all his life. Like _it_ had found _him._

***

Warmth bloomed around him. Wilbur threw a key at his head and Phil laughed, reaching up to ruffle Wilbur’s hair before tugging Techno away with a hand on his elbow. Techno tripped after him and Wilbur followed, running his mouth with theatrical chatter that Techno only half paid attention to as he was led through the castle.

To a _greenhouse._

Techno’s own magic, long-suppressed, flared up at the sight of long rows of soft earth. He thought he’d left his dreams of growing behind by the time he was fifteen and hurtling at a breakneck pace towards a future where he was a killer. Every person that got away had been a reminder that the next wouldn’t, that his hands were made for holding swords and not sowing seeds.

And now: a greenhouse. Now: their eyes on him, bright and full of magic. 

“I don’t have seeds,” he said stupidly.

Wilbur snorted. “Ahead of you,” he said, handing Techno a wooden box. It hummed in his hands, the wood dead but not inert to magic—and Techno wasn’t inert either, not _anymore._

“Did you do this for me?” Techno asked. He was still shocked—it couldn’t have been for anyone _else,_ but…it was inconceivable that anyone would go through so much effort for him. He knew fresh, dark soil and glass that could trap heat were rare supplies in the Antarctic. They wore layers of fleece to ward off the cold. Why, then, would they—

“Of course,” Phil said quietly. He tried to take the box from Techno’s grip, but he couldn’t let go. Phil stopped trying, placing his hands over Techno’s instead. His palms were rough and cool. “We wanted you to have a place for yourself.”

“I have my nooks and crannies,” Wilbur said. His voice was warm sugar, convincing. “Phil has his mines and labs. If you’re going to stay with us, then it should be your place too.”

“Stay,” Phil picked up. His voice didn’t have magic like Wilbur’s did, but Techno found himself hypnotized nonetheless. “Stay with us, Techno.”

Phil’s magic, Techno remembered slowly, was in his hands. First he pulled apart the stone he shaped. Techno caved, folded himself into Phil’s arms. To his credit, Phil didn’t even stagger under the weight, simply adjusted his grip and wrapped his arms around Techno while Techno gasped great ragged breaths, heaving and clumsy and exhausted. “How did you know?” he asked finally. “How did you—my magic—” _I’ve never used it,_ he didn’t say. _I forgot it was real._

Wilbur was smiling when Techno looked up. “It’s springtime, Techno,” he said. “And that’s pretty rare around here.”

The seeds were potatoes and simple ferns and some kind of red flower. Techno ferreted them out by touch, bloomed them in his hands with magic that came in stuttering starts and gulps. He planted them carefully, though. It felt _right_ to let something be alive, to give it room and care and attention.

***

Phil fried the first crop of potatoes. Wilbur made a flower crown out of the red blossoms, and pulled Techno down with a hand on his shoulder to rest it on his head.

It _was_ springtime. There were butterflies in the greenhouse.

“There’ll be birds soon,” Wilbur warned, tone grim but eyes bright with amusement. “They’re gonna peck out all the bulbs and leave behind shit and feathers.”

“Such grim prophecies,” Phil laughed. “I’m sure the birds will be nice—”

“Nice,” Wilbur sneered. “You think they’ll sit on your cap and make a dress for you, old man?”

And on and on they went, sharp and sure of themselves until they were close enough for one of them to lean in and steal a kiss. Techno watched, transfixed, as Wilbur curled his hands in Phil’s lap. Phil’s hands were on Wilbur: in his hair, against his jaw, kind and firm.

Like the most gentle kind of miracle, Phil and Wilbur... _functioned._ It was strange to watch them around the house—a machine in two parts, Phil’s calm hand directing Wilbur’s frenzied energy where it couldn’t hurt anybody while Wilbur’s sunshine filled out the dark spaces of Phil’s motions.

Maybe Technoblade shouldn’t have been surprised by it—it was hardly the strangest thing in this kingdom, even if it was the phenomenon that he couldn’t tear his eyes away from.

Then they pulled away and noticed Techno looking, and Techno looked away with a painful blush. Wilbur said something about a new song he wanted feedback on. Phil mused out loud about mashing the potatoes. Techno relaxed in increments, but couldn’t forget himself.

And then Phil invited him upstairs. Maybe _invited_ was the wrong word—a hand on his elbow, a raised eyebrow over lunch while Wilbur poured wine into the tablecloth, a small smile when Techno noticed a nest in the rafters and a silver pouch of hair clips dropped in front of him as Phil left the breakfast table…

Wilbur sat on the table and fished the clips out of their pouch. “If you want it,” he said frankly, “you can have it.” He smoothed a lock of hair back and pinned it down.

Techno sat very still. “Want what?”

“Us,” Wilbur said, slow and careful. 

“But,” Techno said helplessly. “But I’ve killed people—”

“Is that the only thing holding you back?” Wilbur asked. “Because I’ll tell you right now, Techno—” and now his words were lilting magic, all cherry and birdsong “We don’t care. We’ve never cared.”

“I thought you did,” Techno said, trying to imply that there had been evidence for that conclusion.

“Phil worries about you,” Wilbur snorted.

What question was _that_ answering—“And what do you worry about?”

“Everything,” Wilbur said. “I don’t care if you’ve killed people. You know what our histories are like, don’t you?” Techno nodded hesitantly. He knew enough. “Then you should know that nothing you’ve been before matters here, with us. Not unless you want it to.”

Techno swallowed. “You’re awfully generous.” He felt like a broken record.

“Phil’s spoiled,” Wilbur replied. “He doesn’t often hear the word _no._ Not from me, and certainly not from you. It’s not generosity so much as—” he snapped a clip to punctuate his thought “Phil knows what he wants. He’ll pay any price for it.”

Techno wondered if he was being taken advantage of—but there was no advantage here he couldn’t easily swing a blade through, and he didn’t _want_ to. He wanted what they were giving him. He wanted to be _wanted_ in Phil’s ungenerous way, in Wilbur’s surprisingly careful one, trapped in a silk web of dreams and tender green leaves and magic, always their magic, waiting for him to open the door.

“And if I say yes?”

“Come upstairs,” Wilbur said, bright and serious. “Whenever you’re ready. You’ll know the door.”

Techno nodded. Wilbur touched his head lightly, sliding another clip home, then walked away. Techno thought about the door, about the gazebo, about the greenhouse, and all the roads he’d never find again. He touched the clips in his hair. Could they really tell him where he was meant to be, just like that? Like it was easy?

***

He planted flowers in the greenhouse. Heliotropes, white roses, petunias. He fed them magic, cupping his hands over the buds while he recalled Wilbur’s songs, the warmth of Phil’s smile, a sword not drawn for nearly a year.

He still had nightmares. But these days if he sat on the staircase for a couple hours with his head against his knees Phil would arrive and hand him a mug of hot chocolate.

“How do you always know?” Techno asked, when he’d drunk the entire thing and felt like he could speak again.

“It’s my castle,” Phil answered. “It tells me when I’m needed.”

Techno leaned sideways, trying to fold himself up so small he could put his head in Phil’s lap. Phil laughed and moved a few stairs up, letting Techno lean back instead of to the side in an awkward scrunch. Techno sighed, tension leaving his muscles like a light flicked off.

Phil put a hand over Techno’s eyes, fingers splayed loosely so Techno could still peer out if he wanted—he did want, he wanted to see Phil, to know he was there.

“You’re a lot like Wilbur,” Phil said idly.

Techno hummed. 

“He can never tell me when he wants a hug either,” Phil continued. “Just tries to look cute. Fails, obviously.” Techno snorted. “Maybe I should put the two of you together sometime, see how long you circle each other like cats.”

“About that,” Techno shifted. “He invited me upstairs.”

“Did he now,” Phil murmured. “Well, words do come easier to him.”

Techno wondered what that felt like. Words weren’t easy, and touching and being touched wasn’t easy either. Plants were easy, and swords, and lying here in Phil’s lap and feeling, rather presumptuously, that he wouldn’t be abandoned. “I don’t understand what your game plan is, here,” he confessed. “With me.”

“The part where we want you to stay, or the part where we want _you_?”

Damn Phil for being so astute sometimes. “Either. Both.”

“I see you’re having fun without me,” a voice said. “Hello, boys.”

“Hello, Wilbur,” Phil said. “We missed your presence.”

“And now here I am.” He settled a couple steps below Phil, on Techno’s other side. “Hey, Techno. Did he give you marshmallows in your hot chocolate?”

“Don’t recall,” Techno said truthfully. “I was a bit distracted.”

Phil’s hand left his eyes to sweep into his hair, scratching gently against his scalp. Techno would’ve purred if he could have; instead he took the opportunity to consider Wilbur, who looked soft and mussed-up from sleep, his smile lacking any edges after two a.m.

“Techno was just telling me he doesn’t understand why we want him,” Phil said. 

Wilbur perked up. “I could write a song.”

Techno blushed. “Don’t bother,” he tried, then bit his lip. “I mean, it would probably be too much bother—”

“Not really,” Wilbur said. He cast an eye down at Techno, critically appraising. “If you really want to know, Phil likes that you’re taller than him—”

“ _Traitor,_ ” Phil hissed. “And anyway, you’re into it too—”

“Yeah,” Wilbur said placidly. “We also like your hair. The pink is nice, and Phil’s been dying to put his hands in it.”

Techno went even more red. He couldn’t imagine the effect was particularly flattering between the dimmed orange light in the corridors and his own hair, but Wilbur’s voice was hypnotizing, the kind of voice it was impossible to resist believing in—Techno wanted so badly to believe.

“It’s nicer than I thought it would be,” Phil said, soft and hot. “And my hopes were high.”

“Oh, god,” Techno blurted out. “You’re going to kill me.”

“Hopefully not,” Wilbur said cheerfully. “You know, as for me, I’m rather partial to your hands. I’ve seen you in the greenhouse, in all that mud. You always seem to know what you’re doing.”

“Only in the greenhouse,” Techno protested.

“That’s enough,” Wilbur replied, half-hungry and half-tender, and Techno was reaching up before he could think about it—tugging Wilbur down to press their mouths together, burningly aware of Phil’s eyes on them and thinking _let him see._ Wilbur’s mouth was soft, his gasp surprised as he lurched for balance and then placed a hand tentatively on Techno’s chest, and this might have been the easiest thing in the world. “Fuck,” Wilbur breathed against his mouth. “Techno, Techno—”

He pulled away to press his face against Phil’s shoulder. “Can I?” Phil asked, and Techno nodded without processing the question.

Phil was more confident, but just as clearly had an aim in mind. He kissed to make Techno stop thinking, and he did it _well._ Techno’s mind felt like a cloud as he gave himself over to Phil’s demands, his fingertips against Techno’s neck and his sunshine-sweet words against Techno’s lips.

They kissed each other over his head while he regained his breath. When he understood what he was seeing again, his heart stuttered in his chest at the sight of Wilbur’s forehead pressed against Phil’s, their hands entangled on top of Techno’s chest.

“Well,” Wilbur said at last. “I can’t say that wasn’t effective. Though Phil hoped we’d manage to set it up a little better—”

“I _tried,_ ” Phil said. “You ruin all my plans.”

Techno opened his mouth to apologize, then realized the words were directed at a shamelessly grinning Wilbur. “I think it went fine,” Techno said. “But my standards are, uh, pretty low?”

Wilbur burst out laughing. Phil rolled his eyes, but his mouth was quirking up too. “What would we do without you to tell us the truth,” he said dryly. “Thank you, Techno.” He leaned down and pressed a kiss to Techno’s head.

“I don’t know what I said,” Techno whined. He looked at Wilbur, hoping for another kiss from him too. Wilbur grinned and took his hand, squeezing his fingers. Heat flashed through Techno’s chest—Wilbur liked his hands. Wilbur _liked_ his hands. “Thank you,” he blurted out. “Thank you—both of you—”

“Shh,” Phil said, cupping his face. “It’s alright, Techno.”

“Okay,” Techno mumbled, tilting his face against Phil’s fingers and squeezing Wilbur’s hand back.

***

Techno harvested the potatoes in summer, and planted apple trees in their place. They’d take eight years to fruit, but he could wait that long.

**Author's Note:**

> title song: berlin without return by voxtrot. thanks to worms and v for the beta.


End file.
